Cooke wraps his arm around me until his palm is on my hip. “Really.” Looking down at me, he smirks. “Shall we? We don’t want to be late.”
“Sure.” Late for what? “Nice meeting you, Krissy with a K,” I say as Cooke picks up my backpack and slings it over his shoulder.
“Christ, woman, what’ve you got in here, an anvil?”
It surprises me, making me laugh. I took a jewelry making class. I know what an anvil is. “No. I’ve got my mostly ruined textbook in there, plus some art supplies.” Not to mention the rest of the things a student needs throughout the day.
I follow him out the door and around the building to the street that runs perpendicular to the Hub. It’s also impossible to park there without getting a ticket. Actually, there’s never parking on campus. But not for Cooke. Nope. His little black sports car is parked right there. I walk around the front to see if he has a ticket yet.
“How did you get away without a ticket?” I frown at him, though I shouldn’t. It’s not his fault.
“I spoke with the traffic warden, and she—”
“She?” I roll my eyes.
“Hm, yes.” He looks at me, perplexed. “She told me I had one hour.”
I roll my eyes again. “Only you would get away with that.”
“How do you mean, love?”
“I just mean….” I look up at him, and his brows are scrunched up in the middle of his face. It’s worry. “Nothing. I’m glad you got such a great spot.” I step closer to the passenger side. “Back home, we call this rock star parking.” I open the door and slide inside, waiting for him to do the same.
Cooke chuckles. “Now you can call it rugby star parking.”
Giggling, I gently slap his thigh as he slides down in the car. “I will.” I snap my seat belt on. “So, if we’re not doing the campus tour, where are we going?”
“It’s your surprise. Don’t ask questions.”
He pulls out onto the street, moving slowly past the main administrative building, Beardshear, and then the Memorial Union. As he drives, I point toward the large grassy area. “That day we were talking on the phone, I was sitting right over there.”
“Aye, I recognized the clock tower.”
“The Campanile. There’s a story that says you’re not a true Iowa Stater unless you’ve been kissed under the Campanile at midnight.”
He turns his head slowly toward me. “Areyoua true Iowa Stater?”
“No, sadly.”
“Maybe we can remedy that tonight. Another first?”
I blush at his reference to last night. It can’t be helped.
* * *
“Cooke? Why are we here?”He’s pulled into a parking lot next to what looks like an old school located a little west of Beedle Drive.
He winks at me as he pushes his door open. “You’ll see.” I follow him into the building to an office with an elegant marble plagued on the door that reads Leasing Office. Inside, I listen to him ask for someone named Connie.
“You must be Cooke,” says an older lady as she comes out from somewhere in the back.
He shakes her outstretched hand. “I am. Pleasure.” He moves aside and places his palm on my lower back. “And this is Quinn.”
“Quinn.” She holds out her hand to me. “What a lovely name.”
“Thanks.”What the hell is going on?
Holding her arm out in the direction of the door, she says cheerily, “Shall we look at the condominium now?”
